Subtext
by Osidiano
Summary: A late birthday present for Arynis. Mr. Crawford might be a little odd, especially with how happy he seems to be when he sees Cyndia and her father at parties, but at least he's considerate enough to bring Pegasus along so that she has someone to talk to.


**Disclaimer/Notes:** I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh!, or any of the characters here, unless otherwise mentioned. For instance, the characterization of Pegasus and Cyndia's fathers are my own. I do not own Kazuki Takahashi, and no money is being made off of this piece of fiction. This story was written solely for Ary's entertainment, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original ideas are original (duh) and belong to me, unless otherwise mentioned (Ary and Beth get credit for Cyndia's last name). This story takes place in early June of 1982, and contains children and a hint of slash. Ary, happy belated birthday. Please enjoy.

**Subtext**

Cyndia had always thought that Mr. Crawford was a peculiar man, nice enough but strange in a way that she could not quite describe. Perhaps it was something in his broad smile, or the way that his expression lightened whenever she and her papa arrived at a business party that he was also attending. He was much more open with his feelings and his good-natured laughter than any of her papa's other associates; she had overheard one of the members of the board of directors commenting on it, saying that it had something to due with the fact that the Crawfords were "new money" and originally from California. Cyndia was not quite sure what that had to do with anything.

But Mr. Crawford, though odd, was a good man. He was friendly and never too busy to say hello to her or tell her that she was looking even prettier than the last time they saw one another. Mr. Crawford had a son her age that he promised to introduce her to, saying that he was sure that they would become wonderful friends. It would be nice if he was ever brought along, she thought. The parties rarely had any children present, and she was often bored. Cyndia wondered if the boy would take after Mr. Crawford. Would he be energetic and extroverted like his father, and have that same prematurely silver hair? She thought that it was very pretty, and wished that Mr. Crawford did not insist on keeping his hair cut short. It looked soft, and probably would have felt lovely between her fingers.

There was a chance, of course, that Mr. Crawford's son would look more like his mother, but Cyndia had never seen that woman at any of the social gatherings her papa brought her to, and so had no idea what she might have looked like. She must have been quite pretty, though, or she was sure that they would never have gotten married.

"Ah, Cyndia!" it was Mr. Crawford speaking, holding a tumbler in one hand and gesturing for her to come closer with the other. He knelt as she neared him, continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. "I have brought something for you."

"A present?" Cyndia smiled uncertainly. She did not usually receive gifts from her papa's business friends. Mr. Crawford nodded sagely, the corners of his lips turned down in a ponderous frown. It looked out of place on his smooth face, but he soon ruined the solemn nature of his expression with a chuckle and wink. He was not the kind of man to stay serious for long.

"Yes, and I have no doubt that you will love it. But first: where is your father?"

"Papa is talking with the Director," Cyndia answered quickly, turning to point behind her to where her papa stood a few feet away. He was toying with his lighter and had one of his expensive cigars out, chewing on the tapered end as he listened to an older man with a pot belly talk politics and budget cuts. Mr. Crawford wrinkled up his nose in distaste at the mention of the senior member of the board of directors for her papa's security company.

"Well, _he's_ no fun, now is he?" Mr. Crawford grumbled petulantly, causing Cyndia to stifle a giggle behind one hand. He took a quick sip of the amber liquid in his tumbler before offering her his free hand. "Come on, I'll take you to your present."

"I should wait for Papa."

"Then we should rescue him from the evil clutches of the director, don't you agree?" his hand was still out between them, palm up and fingers slightly curled. Cyndia nodded her consent and took his hand; it was big and warm and soft in all the right places, and strong like her papa's was when he gave her a light squeeze as he stood back up to his full height. They walked over to where her papa and the director were talking, and seemed to arrive at just the right time: Cyndia knew that her father hated discussing international affairs this early in the day, and the director did not seem to know how to take a hint.

"-The situation in the Middle East is coming to a head; I heard that that Oriental weapons manufacturer had his hand in that unfortunate incident in Syria-"

"Twenty thousand people were brutally murdered by their own government, Mr. Smith. I wouldn't exactly refer to it as 'an unfortunate incident.'"

"Of course, of course. But with the developments in Lebanon, do you think Reagan will deploy troops?"

"Well, I don't think that this is really the time nor the place for-"

"The U.N. isn't about to do anything to help: they have their hands full with their own continent. If anything is going to get resolved, it will be through the involvement of the American military," the director continued, ignoring her papa's attempt to steer the conversation towards a less volatile topic. Her papa removed the cigar from his mouth for a moment to regard the band of paper around its middle. "You were in the Army until only recently, weren't you, Mr. Hildebert? I could have sworn you were stationed in Germany. . ."

"Marine Corps, actually," her papa responded through clenched teeth, keeping his gaze focused on the cigar. Cyndia thought that it looked like he was contemplating some inventive new way to use it as a weapon. "Vietnam and Cambodia, almost ten years ago. You must have me confused with someone else."

"I meant nothing by it. All you military men have a better understanding of what it would take for us to get involved, is all. And I'm only trying to say that, as you know, with the state of things in the Soviet Union and all, it's only a matter of time before U.S. money and troops are sucked into those Eastern European skirmishes. I would hate to see us fighting on so many fronts, and I'm certain the Red Curtain is falling, at which point, every ethnic minority population will be vying for an independent nation and-"

"Mr. Hildebert, may I have a moment of your time?" Mr. Crawford interrupted, and the look her papa gave him was one of pure relief and gratitude. The director stiffened, squaring his shoulders and attempting to stand a little taller, as if that might grant him an air of authority.

"Mr. Hildebert and I are in the middle of a discussion, _Mr. Crawford_."

"I'm afraid that it's very important, and absolutely cannot wait," Mr. Crawford brushed the director's annoyance off with a vague gesture of his arm as he raised his glass back to his mouth. He did not seem to notice the sneering tone that his name had been spoken with, or perhaps he simply did not care. "Isn't that right, Cyndia?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Director."

"If you'll please excuse us," her papa gave the director a curt nod, placing a hand on Mr. Crawford's shoulder and steering him away from the fuming little man as quickly as possible. As soon as they were no longer within earshot, Cyndia heard her papa murmur his thanks. Mr. Crawford's grin seemed to double in size almost instantly.

"We couldn't just leave you to that vulture. He probably doesn't even realize that the Marines aren't part of the Navy anymore."

"I appreciate the thought, but believe me, he is not the worst," he replied with a roll of his eyes, removing his hand from Mr. Crawford's shoulder in favor of retrieving his lighter from his pocket. They paused for a moment to allow him to light his cigar. He inhaled slowly, relishing the taste, and sighed the smoke out in a great gray cloud. Mr. Crawford chuckled again, and her papa steadied his friend with a thoughtful glare. "I didn't think you'd be here."

"Yes, well. . ." the younger man coughed, trying to hide the awkward falter by taking another drink. His tumbler was dangerously close to being empty. Cyndia wondered what he would do if he couldn't swirl the liquid around instead of meeting her papa's gaze. "I had to come."

"And why is that?" her papa's voice was very quiet, but not quite a whisper. He sounded very, very serious.

There was silence between them for a moment as Mr. Crawford seemed to consider his answer. Cyndia looked between them several times, her attention bouncing from Mr. Crawford to her papa and back again like she was watching a particularly riveting tennis match. She watched the silver haired man fidget with his glass, then turned to the way that her papa's arm moved stiffly as it removed the cigar from his mouth, his jaw tightening. Her gaze swung back to Mr. Crawford as he opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He gave her hand another small squeeze, and seemed to decide against it.

"I had to bring Cyndia a present," he stated simply instead, his smile returning in full force. Her papa frowned at this, the cigar finding its way back to his mouth and muffling his next few questions.

"Cyndia?"

"Yes, Papa?" she looked back to him expectantly.

"What did Mr. Crawford give you?"

"He said he had to take me to it, and I said that I couldn't go without you," she replied. He nodded at that, holding out his hand for her to take. Cyndia let go of Mr. Crawford and moved to stand next to her papa. Mr. Crawford put his hand in his pocket and drained the remainder of his glass. Her papa took a few more thoughtful puffs of his cigar before using it to gesture idly towards his friend.

"Well, Mr. Crawford, I suppose that you should show us this great present of yours, shouldn't you?"

"Gladly! If you'll follow me. . .?" he sounded hopeful.

"If you will lead the way."

They followed him through the party's crowded groupings of dark suits and long flowing skirts back towards the main house and the sprawling buffet tables that had been set up by the catering services. Mr. Crawford excused himself, leaving them near the refreshments as he set off to find exactly where he had left the present. Cyndia tried to wait patiently, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, rocking on her small heels. Her papa took the opportunity to fix her hair ribbon, which had loosened and was beginning to come undone. He kissed the top of her hair to signify when he had finished.

"Ah, here we are!" it was Mr. Crawford, returning with a smile and a full tumbler. There was a small boy who looked to be about her age who stopped just behind him and peered at her uncertainly from around Mr. Crawford's legs. "Cyndia, I'd like you to meet-" Mr. Crawford pushed the boy forward to stand between them "-my son, Pegasus. Pegasus, this is Cyndia."

She didn't know what to say. The boy was staring at her, his mouth open a little and trembling. He looked like his father; they had the same silver hair and bright eyes, but he was much cuter. It might have been because he looked incredibly lost, and very embarrassed. She chewed her lower lip shyly. Should she extend her hand for him to shake it? That was what her papa did whenever he met new people. She thought that maybe she was supposed to curtsy, but couldn't bring herself to unclasp her hands and reach for the sides of her skirt, either. Mr. Crawford again prompted his son to step forward, softly telling him to, "Go on."

"H-hello," Pegasus stammered, still staring. Cyndia smiled. He sounded nice, at least. She tilted her head down, and looked up at him through her bangs. Behind her, she felt her papa move away and could hear him speaking in a hushed tone to Mr. Crawford.

"I don't suppose that your wife is here?"

"Ah. . . no. She's visiting her sister in Maine."

"Is that so? I thought that she was in. . .?"

"California? Yes, last week. Her mother lives in the Bay Area, you know." Mr. Crawford was swirling the ice in his tumbler again, regarding it thoughtfully. Pegasus looked down at the ground as well, scuffing the grass lightly with one polished shoe. His face seemed awfully red. Cyndia glanced up at where his father stood behind him with her papa on his right. ". . .I don't suppose you have any more of those fancy cigars, do you?"

Her papa touched his suit jacket, pressing his hand over a spot just below his heart. He always kept his cigars in a thin metal case in an inside pocket. "I'm afraid that this was the last one, but I believe Mr. Johnson keeps a box of Cubans in his study, next to a bottle of Macallan."

"You're partial to the thirty year, aren't you?"

"Mmn, quite."

". . .Pegasus, Cyndia?" Mr. Crawford turned away from her papa, practically beaming as he took another drink from his glass. "I trust you two can play nicely together?" They nodded, glancing back to one another briefly before both dropping their gazes to regard the grass between them once more. The older men left, heading for the main house and talking quietly.

"I. . . uhm. . ." Pegasus's brows were knitted in deep thought, and he looked back up to her with a small frown. ". . .My father doesn't smoke."

Cyndia just shrugged and held out her hand for him to take, giggling a little.

"Mine doesn't drink."


End file.
